The Un-Birthday

Tomorrow is my birthday. Please, everyone I know, write on my FB wall so I feel loved. (Kidding! Totally, totally kidding. I mean, at least a little kidding. Okay, fine, we all love getting those virtual birthday wishes... but that's not why I'm writing this post).

I'm writing this post because today is my last day of being 33, which means that tomorrow I'll be 34. Yes, I saw This is 40, and yes, there was a marginally funny (but not that funny) scene where Leslie Mann's character has lied so many times — and inconsistently – to her gynecologist about how old she is, because she doesn't want to face up to being 40, that every nurse has a different record of her age. I am perfectly fine with turning 24, I mean 34, (whoa! What just happened there? Freudian keyboard slip?!), because I have so much in my life to be thankful for (read: cute baby, healthy family, Downton Abbey, this Starbucks panini sandwich I'm enjoying for breakfast even though it's most definitely a lunch offering) and anyway, 34 is not old!

But (there's always a but!), 33 went by so freaking fast. And that is why I'm having a problem, albeit a slight one, with turning 34. Because I barely noticed 33. And that's because when you have a little one, they NEVER STOP MOVING. And so you never stop moving. And also, you get obsessed with counting how many months old they are, but you never think about how old that makes you. And so, I have a lot to do — a lot of living to do, a LOT of writing to do, a lot of parenting to do — and I just really want to make sure that I do as much of those things this year — in year 34 — as I possibly can.

So, happy birthday: to Leo, who turned 16 months yesterday. Love you to itty bitty tiny chewable macaroon-sized pieces.

xo,

Rebecca